


Never shined through in what I've shown

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Firefighter Dean, M/M, Music, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soldier Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's neighbor is addicted to the Lord of the Rings Soundtracks, of all things. Addicted to listening to them loudly, at all hours of the night. Dean has to laugh so he won't cry. He thinks he or his neighbor may be turning into an elf. </p><p>Melodrama aside, after getting to know his elusive neighbor, Dean discovers that there is a reason for his neighbor's LOTR addiction that isn't funny at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Many Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post on Tumblr asking for more AUs, one of which was "[Neighbor who is way too enthusiastic about LOTR soundtracks au](http://usa-government.tumblr.com/post/98240448691/yes-coffee-shop-spy-aus-are-totally-cute-but-here-are)"

Dean had never actually met his neighbor, but whenever he pictured him in his mind, he always had pointy ears. Pointy ears and a delicate, yet strong, face. Tall. Truthfully, whenever Dean pictured his neighbor he thought of an elf. Dean was fairly sure that this wasn’t the case, but until he actually met the guy, his features would remain decidedly elven.

For all that he thought of him now, Dean had never given much thought to the resident of apartment 308 until last month, when ignoring his neighbor became pretty much impossible. Before then, he hadn’t even known that his neighbor was a guy. Nowadays, that much, at least, was clear.

Assuming that his neighbor wasn’t actually an elf, Dean was left to wonder why his neighbor felt the need to blast the Lord of the Rings soundtracks every goddamned night. Ordinarily, Dean loved the Lord of the Rings. The books, the movies, the music, everything about it was pretty fucking awesome in his book. Just not every single night at a volume more suited to heavy metal Metallica than the, admittedly epic, Lord of the Rings soundtracks. 

Dean groaned when he turned the knob of the third floor stairwell door and it opened to the distant sound of a muffled instrumental chorus. The closer Dean got to his apartment the clearer the noise became. Rolling his eyes, Dean unlocked the door to his apartment, which unfortunately for him was the only one on the floor to share a wall with Tolkien guy’s corner apartment. 

He locked the door behind him and heaved his gear bag off his shoulder and onto the folding chair next to the door. The paint on the chair was peeling and showed the rusted metal underneath. Dean always forgot to grab another chair on one of the rare times he was out shopping, and it had gotten to the point where he had decided he might as well keep it until it collapsed one day under the weight of his bag. It wasn’t like anyone was going to actually sit in it. 

It’s just as well that he didn’t get a new chair, Dean thought. A new chair would have looked weird in his apartment. Really, the only thing Dean owned that wasn’t full of holes and peeling paint or some other material was his car. On everything else, Dean convinced himself scratches were character. On his car, the smallest ding was sacrilege. 

He flipped the yellowed light switches that controlled the fluorescent kitchen lights and the standalone lamp in the living room. The kitchen lights flickered before casting a dim glow over the cramped kitchen and most of the living room. The lamp lit what the kitchen didn’t. It wasn’t much, but it gave him enough light to read by that he was pretty sure he wouldn’t go blind anytime soon. 

Dean kicked off his leather work boots and flopped back on his tatty corduroy couch with a sigh. Staring off into space, he noticed that the ceiling had gotten another crack. He also noticed – in a resigned manner that, in Dean’s opinion, he had become much too used to over the past month – that going by the deep and dramatic vocalizing he could hear coming from both the music and his neighbor, it sounded like the guy was in a Return of the King mood tonight. 

Enough was enough, Dean thought irately. He couldn’t keep coming home to this. Especially this morning, which marked the end of the first of three consecutive twenty-four hour on twenty-four hour off shifts at the firehouse this week. He needed to get as much sleep as he could on his downtime, and Dean couldn’t do that when the Lord of the Rings kept blasting through the walls and gearing him up for battle with the forces of Sauron. 

Dean rolled onto his side and grabbed his laptop from its place underneath the sagging couch. Once it was on, he clicked on the icon for his music library and looked for the complete Star Wars soundtrack. He picked the loudest and most obnoxious track he could think of, and put his speakers at full volume. As he moved over to the wall he shared with Tolkien guy he dragged his coffee table along with him. After resting his laptop on the coffee table so it was facing the wall, Dean hit play. 

The Imperial March exploded from the laptop, causing Dean to make a small jump back. Okay, Dean thought, let’s see what Lord of the Rings dude does now. Turning back around, he padded the well-traveled path between the couch and TV as he headed to his bathroom. He unbuttoned his checkered flannel as he opened his bedroom door. He pulled the flannel off and tossed it onto his bed as he went into his bathroom to turn on the shower. 

At least in his bathroom he had some peace. With two doors between him and the music and water beating down inside the shower stall, he could barely hear anything other than the thundering of the water. He quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head and tugged down his worn denim jeans. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pushing down, Dean was finally free to climb into his shower and let he water beat out a tattoo on his uncovered skin that would drown out all the day’s frustrations. 

Already feeling his muscles start to relax from the steam of the shower, he stepped under the harsh spray. As the water beat down on him, Dean’s thoughts were drawn back to his neighbor. He hoped that by the time he finished his shower and went out to pass out in front of the TV that the guy would’ve gotten the message. If he hadn’t Dean would probably cry. Well, not cry, but maybe let out a manly sob. A small one. 

Once he’d rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his hair, Dean carefully turned the two shower knobs all the way to the right. He had replaced them after growing tired of the high pitched squeaking the old knobs had let out every time he moved them, but these new ones weren’t much better. The water only turned off if he turned them at the same time, which was almost, but not quite, as irritating as the old squeaky knobs. Truly, he wouldn’t care at all about his new shower predicament if he didn’t have to hear Sammy snicker every time he stayed the night and went to take a shower in the morning. 

Stepping onto the faded bathmat, Dean grabbed a frayed towel and quickly dried off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed another one for his shoulders to fight off the cold. He reluctantly opened the door and walked out of the muggy bathroom and into the crisp air of his bedroom. A shiver rolled down his body. He kneeled down and reached across his mattress to grab some fresh briefs. Once he had tugged those on, Dean spent a minute searching for his sleep shirt and flannel bottoms in amongst the tangled covers of his bed. It was a large bed, taking up most of the small room, so it took him a while to find all of his clothes. Once he had found his pajamas, Dean pulled them on quickly, as the November chill was fast chasing away the warmth of his shower. 

Dean made his way to the living room, stopping in the kitchen for a drink. He reached past the El Sol and grudgingly grabbed the apple cider out of the fridge. He would have to wait until the weekend for beer. Apple cider wasn’t half bad anyways, especially since he bought it fresh down at the old apple orchard down Brown’s Hollow. 

As he shook the jug, Dean noticed something odd. Thinking for a second, he realized that it wasn’t something odd, it was something awesome. He couldn’t hear anything but the Imperial March. Setting down the jug of cider on the counter, Dean covered his ears and strode over to his laptop. He hit pause.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Dean’s face broke into a smile as he stood in his apartment. His peaceful, quiet apartment. Closing his laptop and dragging the coffee table over the carpet and back to its spot in front of the couch, Dean breathed out. 

***

The weekend couldn’t have come any faster. The week had been long: basically work, sleep, work, sleep, work, and sleep. He’d only been able to pick up one shift at the garage this week, he’d been so exhausted. Thankfully, he had three days before his next shift at the firehouse. He loved being a firefighter and couldn’t imagine doing anything else, but a man needs a break once in a while.

Dean was back in his stretched cotton sleep shirt and threadbare flannel pants. He had gotten home an hour earlier and had immediately hopped in the shower. The bathroom at the firehouse wasn’t all that bad, but it couldn’t compare to getting clean in his own shower, where he didn’t have to worry about getting a call and having to gear up at a moment’s notice.

Not that his cooking was much better here than what they had at work. Out of all of them, Benny was the best cook and often volunteered to help even when he wasn’t assigned to the kitchen. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been in the past week, so Dean had had to eat Garth’s idea of a hearty meal without any of Benny’s doctoring. Even Jo had looked like she’d had trouble swallowing that meal. 

Dean was pulling out a pan from one of his slightly sticky cupboards when heard the introductory strains of music that had been blissfully absent whenever he had been home the past week.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ.” Dean swore, and dropped the pan on the counter with a clatter while unsticking his hand from the cabinet door. He couldn’t take it anymore. He strode over to the door and turned the handle with one sharp twist of his wrist. Walking out the door and taking two steps to the right, Dean turned and pounded on the door. The music continued. Dean hit the door with the palm of his hand. He did it again. Again. 

As it so happened, Dean’s neighbors on the third floor were all out doing whatever it was they needed to do on a late Friday morning. Otherwise, Dean might have found himself accused of bearing a rather striking resemblance to a brain-dead zombie, what with his bloodshot eyes framed by purplish circles, followed by his single minded attack on his neighbor’s door. Dean himself had the fleeting thought that he was acting a bit zombielike, but reasoned that he was justified and thought of it no more. 

Just as Dean was pulling back his hand to beat on the door again, he saw the handle turn. Pulling his arm back down to his side, Dean took a step back and waited for the door to open. It opened a crack, just enough for a tired blue eye to peek through. The chain was still hooked. 

Neighbor guy didn’t say anything. Dean could feel the back of his neck start to prickle as the guy continued to stare at him. The instrumental depiction of Amon Hen that spilled through the sliver of open space and echoed in the dim hallway didn’t help to alleviate the ominous vibe Dean was getting. 

“Hey,” Dean started. The guy continued to stare at him. “I’m your neighbor, I live in number 307,” Dean continued. Breaking eye contact and looking down, Dean remembered that he was dressed in nothing but his old flannel pajamas. 

“Anyways,” Dean said, looking up from his pants and glancing up and down the hallway, “could I come in?” The man’s stare morphed to a squint. He took a few more seconds to squint at Dean suspiciously before unlocking the chain to the door and turning around with a nod. 

Dean stepped through the doorway and found himself in an apartment that was very much like his own, but at the same time very different. Of course the layout was the same. Their building wasn’t near fancy enough for the layout of each apartment to be different. 

There was even less decoration in music guy’s apartment than in Dean’s own apartment, although what furniture there was seemed to be in better condition that Dean’s. Although, most people’s furniture was in better condition than Dean’s, so he didn’t think that meant much of anything. Brightly lit lamps cast the interior in a warm glow and gave the place an overall welcoming feel that seemed at odds with what Dean had seen of the man who inhabited it. 

The man was walking to the cracked counter that divided the kitchen and the small living room, where, Dean saw, the source of all his problems sat blaring battle sounds and songs. Thankfully, when the dude reached the CD player he turned down the music enough that Dean could actually hear himself think. The guy turned around.

Before the staring could start again, Dean remembered the manners his mother taught him a long time ago and decided to introduce himself properly. “I’m Dean, by the way.” 

After a few agonizing seconds where the dude just stood there, he finally spoke. “Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel.” Before Dean could respond to that, Castiel continued in a low rasp, “I assume you are here about the music.” 

Dean couldn’t stop his eyebrows from lifting. If the dude – Castiel – knew the music would be a problem, why the hell did he play it loud enough to wake the dead and host a rave with their undead bodies? 

Remembering that he hadn’t actually answered Castiel’s question, Dean said “Yeah, actually.” Never one to hold his tongue, Dean continued with his earlier train of thought and asked, “If you knew the music would be a problem, why the hell have you been playing it loud enough to wake the dead and host a rave with their zombie bodies?”

This time it was Castiel’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Zombies?” he intoned, crossing his sweatshirt clad arms high across his chest. 

Dean shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah, you know, chase you down, eat your brains, and assimilate you into their horde…” Dean paused, realizing he was getting off track and that the dude was starting to squint again, “…but that’s not the point,” he continued, “the point is that you’ve been playing your Lord of the Rings soundtracks loud enough that I can make out each song.” Dean decided to leave out that he had also heard the guy accompanying the tracks several times. He hadn’t minded that so much. The dude actually sounded pretty hardcore. As hardcore as vocalizing to Lord of the Rings songs could get, anyhow. 

Dean thought Castiel was starting to look uncomfortable, which considering neither of them actually knew each other, was probably a pretty safe, if delayed, reaction. However, Dean couldn’t imagine that he looked very dangerous dressed in his pajamas and looking like he was ready to sleep for a week. 

A rough, “I apologize,” interrupted Dean’s thoughts. Dean realized that he had been the one staring this time, which in retrospect explained why Castiel looked uncomfortable. 

“Right, don’t worry about it,” Dean assured him, looking away. “As long as you keep it down from now on, cause I gotta tell you man, it’s as much the content as it is the volume. It’s hard to get to sleep, or concentrate on anything at all really, when I feel like I should be gearing up to charge Helm’s Deep with the Rohirim or something.” 

This brought a small smile to Castiel’s lips. “I understand,” he started to say, glancing at Dean before turning to look out a small window that Dean could see sat behind an worn leather armchair, “However, I would like to be able to play my music loudly once in a while. Are there times when you will be out of your apartment when I will be able to do so?”

After thinking for a moment, Dean couldn’t see a problem with Castiel’s proposition, although he sort of got the impression that Castiel was messing with him. “Yeah, I think we could work something out,” he answered. “Can’t deprive you of your Lord of the Rings,” he added sarcastically. 

“Of course not,” Castiel replied primly, before turning from the window to meet Dean’s eyes. “And if you ever feel the need to play music, the Star Wars soundtrack for example, I would be happy to let you know what times would be best.” 

***

Dean heaved a sigh as he threw himself backwards onto his mattress. He slid one of his many thick, ratty blankets up over his body all the way to his chin. He breathed deeply and curled into his pillow, comforting himself on the cool pillowcase. 

His three days off had gone quickly, and it was already the end of the next week. It had been a week since he had barged in on his mysterious and mildly annoying neighbor intent on giving him a piece of his mind. He had exited his neighbor’s apartment with a notification system in place and zombies on his brain. 

So far the system had worked great. Dean had gotten the peace that he needed to sleep and have some downtime, and Castiel had, presumably, gotten to give play to his Lord of the Rings obsession. All it had taken was for Dean to slip little notes under Castiel’s door whenever he was heading out for a shift at the firehouse or garage, giving Castiel twenty-four or eight hours, respectively, to play his music. 

It was just like Sammy always said. Communication made the world a much easier place to live in. Turning onto his stomach and burrowing even more into his pillows, Dean drifted off to sleep. 

***

A biting chill came with dusk the next day, reminding Dean that these were the last days of autumn and that winter was coming. Which then reminded Dean that he should really reread A Game of Thrones sometime soon. 

Pulling his thin leather jacket tight around himself, Dean was happy to be heading home from his shift at Bobby’s garage early. He had a shift at the firehouse tomorrow morning, and this would let him get some quality Dean-time in before twenty-four hours of firefighting-time. Dean made a mental note to never use those terms outside of his head. 

Dean parked his car in the lot outside his apartment building and covered her up for the night. He walked inside and started up the stairs, thinking about what he was going to have for supper. Popcorn, maybe? He reached the third floor landing and opened the door into his hallway. 

As he walked towards his door he heard it. The unmistakable strains of a song from the Fellowship of the Ring. Great. So much for spending an evening relaxing. Dean shook back his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch. Tolkien neighbor thought he was at the garage for the next hour and a half. 

Dean reached his door and stood outside it, torn over whether or not to go to the hassle of asking Castiel to turn down the music. A particularly loud rumble made up his mind. Walking a bit farther down the hall, Dean stopped in front of door 308. He banged on the door loudly, knowing that there was no way Castiel would hear him otherwise. He was just about to knock again when the door opened a crack, just like the last time Dean had stood there.

When Castiel saw who it was, he opened the door and motioned for him to come inside. Sound reverberated through Dean’s head as he followed Castiel into the living room. He watched as Castiel went to turn down the music. Once Dean could hear himself think, Dean explained what had happened. 

“Sorry to interrupt your, uh, session, but my uncle let me off work early.” Now that he actually said it, it sounded a bit lame to Dean. He continued on anyways. “I know I told you I wouldn’t be home today until seven, and that our agreement says you can keep playing your music, but I was hoping you could end it early tonight.” 

Castiel appeared to droop at Dean’s words, but started to nod his head. “Actually,” Dean said, feeling like an ass, “Why don’t you come over to my place.”

Castiel stood up straighter at Dean’s words, so Dean continued, “We could watch one of the Lord of the Rings movies. I’ve even got the old cartoons. They’ve got songs too, just not as sophisticated as the new movies. My brother and I loved ‘em when we were younger, though” They still loved them, though Dean wasn’t ready to tell Castiel this. 

Castiel turned to grab something out of a box that was next to the CD player. “I was actually getting ready to re-watch Season One of the television version of A Game of Thrones. One of my brothers sent it to me when I asked him to come for a visit.” Here Castiel’s face twisted, but he didn’t seem upset. Castiel continued, “He seemed to think it was an appropriate substitute.” 

With another slight grimace, Castiel held up the box of Season One Game of Thrones. “So you don’t have to worry about the music, I was about to turn it off when you knocked.”

Dean felt strangely offended that Castiel was turning down his invitation, and realized that he actually wanted Castiel to come over. “Well, then,” Dean said, “we could watch it over at my place. My couch is soft and my TV is bigger than yours.” Not that Dean wanted to get into a dick – TV – measuring match. “You bring the DVDs, I’ll supply the TV and popcorn.” 

At this, Castiel’s eyes widened. “Popcorn?” 

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, dude, popcorn.” Frowning, Dean asked, “You have had popcorn before, right?”

“Of course,” Castiel replied haughtily, “I just really like it and haven’t had it in a while.”

Dean seized the moment. “Well then let’s go, man. Time’s a wastin.’ We’ve got shows to be watching and popcorn to be popping.”


	2. Concerning Popcorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Popcorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wrote a 15 page paper last night, so this is all I could get done without my fingers falling off.

Castiel started forwards before stopping and asking Dean, “Will there be butter?” Dean stopped from where he had been turning towards the door and parroted back at Castiel, “Will there be butter?” in a questioning voice. Butter for what? The popcorn? Of course there would be butter for that.

“For the popcorn,” Castiel clarified. Dean felt his face break into a grin. A man after his own heart. “Castiel, my friend, I think you and I are gonna get on just fine.” Castiel’s only response was to ask if that meant there would be butter. “Yes, Castiel, there’ll be butter.” “And salt, too,” Dean added as an afterthought.” 

“Very well, then. Let me grab my coat.” Dean waited as Castiel disappeared into what Dean guessed was his bedroom. The dude had the right idea. It was freaking cold. Their cheap-ass landlord refused to turn the heat on until December, so that left another two weeks of increasingly cold weather that would mean increasingly thick layers. 

“I’m ready,” came grumbled from behind him. Dean turned towards Castiel’s voice and saw that he had put on a long tan jacket over his jeans and sweater. “A trench coat?” Dean asked, thinking that that wouldn’t keep Castiel very warm. Plus, a trench coat? Really? At least Dean had some sense of style with his leather jacket. Oblivious to Dean’s thought’s, Castiel shot back, “Technically, it’s an overcoat.”

“Whatever floats your boat, dude. Now let’s go so I can get the popcorn started.” He could feel his stomach growling already.

***

Dean led Castiel into his apartment. He flicked the lights and draped his leather jacket carefully over the back of the folding chair that had yet to give up the ghost.

“Kick off your shoes, make yourself at home.” Dean bent over to unhook and untie his work boots. “I just swept last month,” he continued, “so you don’t have to worry about stepping on anything too, uh, out of the ordinary. 

Dean watched as Castiel followed his lead, draping his trench coat over the chair and placing his slippers next to Dean’s boots. Wait, slippers? Dean did a double take and looked back down to see that Castiel had worn a pair of fleece slippers over from his apartment. He snorted. 

“I’ll just go grab the popcorn,” he told Castiel while walking the short distance to the kitchen. Stepping from the carpet to the linoleum, the chill that clung to the filmy floor started to seep up through Dean’s socks. 

Picking up his pace, Dean bent down and opened the cupboard next to the oven. Reaching back behind the beans and pasta, he grabbed the canvas bag full of fancy popcorn that he had been working through for the past year.

“I got this popcorn last year when I was visiting my brother Sam,” he told Castiel, who had followed Dean into the kitchen. He heaved the sack up onto the counter. “Sam dragged me to this co-op that he goes to because I wouldn’t stop ragging on him for turning into a liberal hippie…Anyways, so we walk in, and the popcorn was right by the door.” Here, Dean holds his hands two feet apart and then continues, “A twenty-five pound bag for twenty bucks.” 

Dean glanced up at Castiel, who was staring again. “Long story short the deal was too good to pass up and I ended up eating both crow and popcorn.” Just another thing for Sammy to tease him over. Not that it bothered Dean. He would always have infinitely more material than Sam by nature of being the older brother. 

Dean had decided to try and see if he could finish the whole bag by the end of this year, but he still had a third left and only a month to go. He said as much to Castiel and added, “I was starting to think I wouldn’t be able to finish it. Maybe with you here we can finish it all off.”

Castiel looked mildly repulsed at the thought of eating almost ten pounds worth of popcorn in one sitting, so Dean quickly assured him that he didn’t mean they would eat it all tonight. 

“You would like me to visit other nights, then?” Castiel asked, his eyes and voice softening with his words.

“If tonight goes well, then why not. It’s not like I’ve got anyone else this close by, and I think it’s the same for you. I mean, I’ve got my friends at the firehouse, but…” Dean trailed off, not wanting to continue talking about his friendships and the issues that came with them with someone he barely knew. 

Dean took out a pot from the cupboard and measured out a bit of oil into it. He turned on the stove and put the pot on to heat up the oil. 

“Let’s get the TV set up while the oil heats,” Dean suggested, brushing past Castiel and out into the living room. Castiel followed and handed him the first disk from his Season One box. Dean leaned over to pop it into his DVD player and flipped the TV to the right channel for watching DVDs while he was over there. 

Remembering the stove, he hurried back to the kitchen and tested the oil with a few kernels of popcorn. They started to pop almost immediately, so Dean measured out a half cup of popcorn and added it to the pot to cook. He noticed that Castiel was watching him.

Castiel. Such an awkward name. It wasn’t too long, but it was uncommon enough that it didn’t sit right in his mouth. He was used to simple name like Sam, Benny, and Jo. He wondered if the dude had a nickname and decided to test one out.

“Hey, Cas, how much popcorn do you want?” Castiel looked up from where he had been staring blankly at the TV. 

“A large amount. Do not worry, though. We can always make more if we run out.”

Dean noticed that he hadn’t said anything about the nickname. He must have heard it before. That made it easier on Dean. His mouth had been starting to contort each time he went to say ‘Castiel.’ Dean shook the pot as he was thinking, making sure that the popcorn didn’t burn. 

Soon it started to lift up the lid of the pot as it expanded over the rim. He lifted it up and let the popcorn fall into a large metal bowl that he kept just for such occasions. 

Castiel reached forward and turned off the stove as Dean dumped the last of the popcorn into the bowl. He looked at Dean and asked, “Butter?”


	3. Journey to the cross-roads

They melted half a stick of butter in the microwave and then poured it over the popcorn. Dean slowly poured the butter from the small bowl while Cas took a wooden spoon and stirred the popcorn around, coating it with the butter. After it was coated to both their satisfaction, Dean reached back and grabbed the popcorn salt from the corner of the counter so he could liberally salt the buttered popcorn. Once they both were happy with the resulting bowl of salty, buttery goodness, Dean grabbed the bowl with both hands and headed over to the couch.

Cas followed. They settled into the sagging cushions. After a moment’s indecision, Dean wedged the popcorn bowl between their legs. He definitely wasn’t ready to have Cas digging around in his lap. Dean grabbed the remote off of the coffee table and pressed play.

***

Dean sniffed his soup. It didn’t smell like it had gone off, but it still smelled … off. He jiggled the container and watched as beans turned somersaults amongst floating green flakes. Turning from the fridge, he looked over to where Jo was sitting with her lunch and asked, “Hey Jo, who made this soup?”

Jo swallowed a bite of her usual turkey and provolone and came over to look at the soup. “Oh, that’s Garth and Benny’s 7-bean parsley soup.” Which explained why it had green bits in it, at least. 

Jo was still talking. “They made it a couple days ago. Garth added the beans and Benny added the parsley.” She stopped to take another bite of her sandwich. Around a mouthful, she added “It wasn’t half bad. Just be sure to add lots of pepper.” And with a quiet snort, she wiped her hands on the flowery towel hanging off of the fridge handle and left the kitchen. 

Dean decided to go for it and scooped himself out a bowlful. He couldn’t find the pepper, but Jo must have been messing with him again, because when he tried a bite it was pretty good without it. As he sat at the folding table where they ate their food and quickly ate his soup, Dean thought back to the night before and his impromptu movie night with Cas. 

The popcorn had been good and crunchy. Once they reached the bottom of the bowl their fingers had been so greasy they’d had to pause the episode to go wash off the butter and salt. After that, they had watched the rest of the first disk before both of them pleaded exhaustion and called it a night.

It had been nice, sitting there on his couch with someone beside him, knowing that he wasn’t alone in the dark. He could look over and Cas was right there with him, illuminated in the glow of the TV. 

Truthfully, Dean didn’t have visitors over that often. He liked to say it was because of how small his apartment was, but really he just hadn’t been in a very sociable mood for the past few years. Once his brother had moved away from Kansas and out to California, Dean had just sort of wilted, socially and emotionally.

He had forgotten how much he liked hanging out with people, people that he didn’t know through work and who weren’t obligated to spend time with him. 

He was jerked from his thoughts by the alarm. Scraping his chair back from the table, Dean hurried to where his gear was stashed and pushed Cas out of his mind for the time being.

***

Dean’s shift ended late the next morning. He packed his stuff and huddled under his winter coat as he crunched out to his car. There may not have been much but slush on the ground, but damn, it was cold. The sleet didn’t help the weather at all. He unlocked his car door and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door in a futile effort to keep out the cold from his even colder car.

He turned the ignition and blew on his hands as he waited for his engine to heat up a little. A few minutes later he turned on the heat. He backed out of the lot and onto the slushy street and drove home, _Enter Sandman_ turned up and rattling his windows as he fought to keep his eyes open.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he guided baby through the icy streets. It was times like these that he started to think that power steering would be a nice addition to his car. 

Once he reached his apartment, he parked his car and hurried to grab his gear bag. He hunched over and carefully trudged up the outside stairwell to his floor, the phantom sensation of his pillow quickening his steps. 

He made his way down the silent hallway, the thin carpet muffling his steps. He opened his door and went through his usual routine of gear bag, jacket, and shower, before dropping face down on his bed and passing out for the next few hours.

***

He could hear something. Music. A melody. It was haunting. It drifted under the bedroom door from the living room. Dean reluctantly opened one eye and stared blearily at his dresser. He groaned. Rolling onto his back, Dean looked blankly at the ceiling. It was cracked in here too.

The melody played on.

Dean roughly grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his face, but he could still hear the music. It actually wasn’t that bad; violins and flutes weren’t the worst way to be pulled from sleep. Still, he was tired. 

The melody played on. 

On the other hand, it was probably time to wake up. He pulled the pillow from his head and lay there as it rolled off to the side. He reluctantly rolled up into a sitting position and swung around to haul his legs off the side of his mattress. He shivered, and reached down to pull a fluffy down blanket around his shoulders. 

His feet hit the wood of the floor and curled as they reacted to the chill. He felt the divots and grooves that age had carved into the dull oak floor. Dean stretched back and grabbed a flannel from the corner of his bed. His fingers were numb as they fumbled to button it all the way. 

He shook as a shiver traveled down his body. He braced himself and leaned down to grab his old KU sweatshirt from back when he went through their Fire and Rescue Training Institute’s Firefighter 1 and 2 training programs. 

Finally warm, Dean stumbled into his kitchen with the soft melody guiding his way. 

He made it to the door before he remembered socks, so he reached into his gym bag and pulled out an old pair. Once he had some socks on and his feet weren’t so white with cold, Dean grabbed his keys off the nail he had pounded into the wall last year. He flicked it and watched it wobble. He would need to look for the hammer sometime.

Later, though. Dean pushed the nail into the plaster and walked out of his apartment. He went a couple of steps to his right. 

He knocked on the door in a manner that was beginning to feel routine, but unlike before, Dean wasn’t sure if he regretted it.

The music softened until Dean could barely make it out over the groans of the old building. It didn’t take long for the door to open, this time all the way. 

As it opened, Dean heard Cas’s voice saying, “I recognized your knock, Dean.” Once the door was open all the way, Cas continued, “Would you like to come in?” The music transformed Cas’s words as he spoke, and Dean almost lost himself in the melody. 

He shook his head, “Yeah, I would.” And with that, he walked through the doorway and into Cas’s apartment.

It was cold in here, too. The last light of the day spilled through Cas’s windows and cast everything in shadow. Cold seeped into Dean’s feet though his socks. “They still haven’t turned the heat on yet, huh?” “

“No,” Cas answered, “It is still November.”

“Well, it’s thirty degrees out. They’d better get it turned on soon or my fingers’ll turn into popsicles,” Dean complained. It was at least ten degrees colder than usual this year, and Dean felt it with every creak of his joints.

Cas turned around and sat on the bar stool resting by the counter that divided the kitchen and living room. “While I doubt that your fingers will turn into popsicles, I do agree with you about the heat. Unfortunately, the manager is a cheapskate.” Cas grumbled, crossing his arms.

Dean noticed Cas was more irritated than Dean was. Maybe he knew their landlord. “You know the guy?” Dean asked, curious.

“Barely. He is, however, the reason I am living in this apartment. My friend Balthazar knew him from somewhere and offered to ‘hook me up,’” Dean could hear the air quotes around the phrase. “I had no better options and so accepted his offer.”

It sounded to Dean like Cas was saying he had just moved in. “Wait,” Dean blurted out, “So when did you move in?”

Cas tilted his head. “About two months ago. Why?”

Dean huffed. “I just thought you had lived here longer. Although that does explain why the music didn’t start until the end of September.” How Dean could have missed someone moving in to the apartment, Dean didn’t know. How he could have missed that the apartment had apparently been empty for the past year, Dean really didn’t know. 

Cas coughed. “Ah. Yes, the music. I assume you are because you heard the, uh, song?” Here Cas jerkily nodded his head towards the CD player that was still playing softly. 

“Yeah, what gives?” Dean asked. He wasn’t angry, but still, he wondered why Cas was playing music outside of the system that had been working so well for them. Maybe there had been a miscommunication.

Dean continued, “Didn’t I remember to tell you I’d be off today?” 

Cas shifted where he was sitting on the stool. The wood of the seat let out a mournful creak. “You did, I found your note yesterday morning. However…” he trailed off. 

Silence hung between them, and in the icy chill of Cas's almost empty apartment Dean began to get the impression that there was more to the music issue than just the obsession of someone who was very, very fond of the Lord of the Rings. He was at a cross-roads.


	4. Castiel Invaded

Dean liked Cas. He, or at least his brother, had good taste in TV shows. He obviously liked Lord of the Rings with the way he listened to the soundtracks to the movies. He liked popcorn with lots of butter. He was kind and annoying and, Dean thought, buttery. Soft yet hard. 

Dean decided to prompt Cas to finish his thought. “However…?” he asked, his voice questioning. 

Cas cleared his throat, a rasping sound that was painful just hearing. “However,” seemed to force out, “I was unable to comply with the terms of our earlier agreement.”

Unable? Dean wondered how he could have been unable to not listen to music for a few hours. “Unable? How were you _unable_ to have some peace and quiet for a day?” Dean’s brow furrowed as he leaned back against the painted wood of the apartment door. 

Cas stared at something somewhere by his toes. They were uncovered and red from the cold. Dean realized he was staring at Cas’s toes and looked away. 

Cas rasped, “I do not listen to the songs from the _Lord of the Rings_ because I am a fan of the music. It is nice, and, at times, inspiring, but not something that I would ordinarily desire to listen to at all hours of the day at such high volume.” Cas stopped again. His face was cast in shadow. 

They had been there long enough that Dean knew the last of the sun’s rays would soon fade from the sky and leave them in darkness. 

As if sensing this, Cas abruptly rose from where he had been slumped on the bar stool. He walked into his living room. He turned the switch of one of his lamps and then headed over to the window, where he grabbed the faded olive curtains and closed them with a sharp jerk of his arms. The room was now cast in a yellow glow, lit only by the one spindly lamp that Cas had turned on earlier. 

Dean straightened up from where he had been leaning on the door. He moved past the kitchen and walked slowly into the living room, where his feet were again shocked with cold. Dean mentally rolled his eyes and pushed his feet from his mind. Now was not the time. Cas was obviously upset and Dean was at least partially responsible.

Dean didn’t consider himself the best person to confide things to. Sam was better at that, he always knew what to say and how to make the person feel comfortable. Dean straightened his shoulders. Sam wasn’t here though, and Cas was his friend. A new friend, but a friend all the same and Dean would do what he could. 

Cas dropped onto one end of his couch and pulled his legs up under him. His gripped the couch and his knuckles slowly whitened. The couch looked like it had long ago given up trying to protest the rough treatment.  
Cas closed his eyes and swallowed. Dean watched his Adam’s apple bob. 

Dean stopped at the end of the couch and took a moment to just look at Cas. He looked defeated. Dean sat down at the end of the couch that was opposite from Cas. His back and shoulders had gone from straight to stiff. He again remembered his lack of skill in emotional situations. 

Cas opened his eyes. He looked up from his lap and over to where Dean was sitting on the other end of the small couch. “I apologize. I have not talked about this with anyone before.” He took a shuddering breath. “I know that the way that I have been playing the Lord of the Rings is not healthy, but I cannot help it.”

He coughed and abruptly changed subjects. “I’m a warrior. A soldier. Or,” he continued gruffly, “at least I was.” Cas’s word’s surprised Dean, who hadn’t taken the nerdy looking dude in a trench coat for someone who would have a profession that involved any sort of confrontation or physical activity. 

“The songs hold many memories for me. When they were made, the memories were good ones, but time has turned them sour.” He slumped back and was cradled by the cracked leather of the couch. He settled in before elaborating, “Certain, regrettable things were required of me, and have made the memories associated with the music very painful.”

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed harshly out. Dean was at a loss for what to say.

“Even though the music is painful, it is all I have left to remind me of my team mates, my brothers in arms. I am afraid that I could not help myself tonight.” He paused before continuing lowly, “I will endeavor to better in the future. Perhaps I could go buy some headphones. I’ve never been a fan, but since the music has been bothering you so much—” 

“No!” Dean said, his voice echoing off the walls of the apartment. “No,” he said again, this time more subdued, “You can play the music. It’s not that bad,” which was a lie, but Dean certainly wasn’t going to tell the guy that. “You seem to need the sound way more than I need the quiet,” which was the truth, and in Dean’s mind, more than made up for the earlier lie. 

“Look, we’re both tired. Why don’t I come back tomorrow morning? We can talk more then, or maybe we can just watch more TV. But I think we’ll both feel better after a good night’s sleep,” Dean suggested, although when he looked at Cas’s face more closely and saw how deep the bags under his eyes were, Dean had the sinking thought that he might be the only one getting a good night’s sleep that night.

He got up from the couch and left Cas sitting there. He opened the door and went to his own apartment. 

The melody played on.

***

Dean rolled out of bed. He headed to the bathroom, his feet cushioned by the wool socks he had pulled on the night before.

The metal squeaked as he turned the handle that controlled the shower. A cool spray started to beat down on the bottom of the tub. He turned the knob as hot as it would go. While the water was heating up, Dean pulled off his socks and exposed his feet to the morning chill. He crossed his toes in an effort to ward off the chill. 

Dean quickly stripped off his shirt and pants, perfunctory motions he had gone through thousands of times before. He left his pajamas in a wad on the floor and stepped into the tub. 

The water hit his chest as he stepped under the spray, pinpricks of heat slowly sending warmth down his skin in waves. Warm, then hot. Too hot. Dean turned the knob for cold and reached for the shampoo. 

Shampoo ran down his face in soapy rivulets as he scrubbed his face with a warm washcloth. The coconut of the shampoo filled his nose and he breathed deeply. He rubbed down his body in one smooth motion. Neck, chest, belly, groin. A final rinse and he turned off the shower. Dean stepped out of the tub, dripping onto the mat. He grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped himself dry. 

Dean breathed in, then out, trying to relax in the steam that filled the bathroom. He couldn’t. Not when Cas was next door, maybe still awake and slumped over the arm of that couch while Dean was taking his time primping himself in the bathroom. 

He ran a hand through his hair, backwards then forwards. He scooped up his pajamas and dumped them on his bed. He crawled across his bed to grab a pair of pants and a long sleeve shirt from his dresser. Once he had tugged both on he bent down and pulled a flannel out from where it was mushed up against his mattress. He slid it on and quickly did up the buttons in one practiced motion. He grabbed something else from its place on the floor, a denim over shirt. This he left unbuttoned. 

Ready for the day, Dean walked through his apartment and out the door. 

Two steps to the right, and he was outside Cas’s apartment door. Again. At least he was expecting him this time. Dean paused with his hand halfway raised to knock. At least, he thought Cas was expecting him. The dude had been a little out of it last night, when Dean had just…left. 

Of course Cas would want to see him after that, Dean thought sarcastically. It was a good thing he was bribing Cas with waffles. He bet Cas put butter on waffles.

Dean knocked. The wood stung his knuckles. He knocked again. He waited a minute and lifted his hand to knock once more when the door opened. Cas was behind it, eyes shadowed and looking overall like a wilted flower. 

However, if Cas was a flower, then Dean was his water, for when he saw Dean standing there he stood just a little straighter.


	5. Interlude: The movie goes ever on and on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearing the end of the semester, so I figured I'd post what I've got before I start focusing on finals.

“Cas! Hey, man.” Dean started to say, before stopping and falling silent. Cas had gone from perky to leaning heavily against the doorframe. Dean rolled his shoulders reflexively.

“Cas,” Dean continued after his shoulders had been thoroughly rolled. “Do you wanna come over to my place for a bit?”

Here Cas stared at him for a while before looking slowly and deliberately at the wall behind the door. Craning his neck, he said in a low monotone “It is seven o’clock in the morning.” 

Oh. Huh. “Oh, huh.” Dean said in response. Great. “Did I wake you up?” he asked out of politeness, because the bags under Cas’s eyes made it obvious that he hadn’t been sleeping. 

Cas apparently realized this, because he answered “No, actually. I am just not accustomed to having people pound on my door before the sun’s light started to travel through my window…” 

Dean looked past Cas and at the window set into his extra wall. It was still dark out, though he could just make out the faint outlines of clouds hanging low in the gray sky. Snow, great. And Cas was right, it was way too early. What was he thinking? Dean ground his teeth. He always woke up too early when he worried. He really needed to get a clock. 

Cas was still talking, “…although with the amount of times you have knocked on my door of late, I should perhaps not be so surprised.”

“I was just a little, um, worried.” Dean explained, because that didn’t sound lame at all. There was a long pause. Cas loomed silently in the doorway. Dean got the feeling he wasn’t in the mood to talk about what had happened last night. Which was fine. Dean was the best at not talking and ignoring his feelings. They could do something else instead.

“Soooo. Why don’t you come over and watch a movie with me. There’s no time like ass o’clock in the morning to watch an existential classic like _Blade Runner_.”

“The morning is the best time for that,” Cas agreed, his lips twitching in the barest of grins. “Although if we really want to go existential, we should watch _Existenz_.”

Dean hadn’t heard of it. “Never heard of it.” He was starting to shiver in the hallway, and was pretty sure he just saw his breath puff away into the stale air of the building.

“It’s better that you haven’t” was Cas’s reply. “It’s awful. I had nightmares about the horrible plot and the horrible implications of the plot.” He abruptly changed subjects and said he was going to go grab his coat. With an about face, he disappeared back into the darkness of his apartment. 

“Don’t forget some socks!” Dean called after him. He wiggled his own sock-clad feet and was in the middle of wondering whether he should change into sweatpants before the movie when Cas returned.

Dean stepped back so that Cas could lock the door behind him.

***

He’d wanted to be Harrison Ford so bad when he was younger. Well, it started out as Han Solo and turned into Indian Jones and by that point he decided he preferred the genuine article. The way he could read a line…Dean was jerked out of his memories by an explosion on screen. Beside him, Cas started.

It wasn’t that the explosions were that spectacular, especially considering when the movie came out. It was the psychological aspect of it all. _Blade Runner_ was definitely still a classic. 

During a lull, Cas quietly commented that “The Director’s cut is much better than the theatrical version.”

Dean jerked his head toward Cas. He could barely make him out in the dim of the apartment. He needed a window. And Cas, Cas needed to rethink his life if he'd only seen the theatrical version. “You’ve only seen the theatrical version before this?!” he exclaimed. The poor man. 

Cas rolled his eyes upwards. “Yes, Dean. I had heard that it was better without the voice-over, but the only copy I had access to when I was a teenager was a bootlegged VHS of the theatrical version.”

“Bootlegged?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes, Dean.” Cas repeated. “Two of my older brothers filmed it when it came out. I’ve actually never seen the ending because they got caught and had to ‘make a break for it,’ as they like to tell it.”

Deckard stepped out of the elevator and they fell silent.

At another lull Cas continued their earlier conversation. “I have read _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_ , though, so I think I can be excused for making it this far in my life without watching the best version of the movie adaptation.”

Dean had to give him that, but still. “The book was different, though. The movie is less philosophical.” 

“I suppose,” Cas murmured. “Barely, though." They focused on the TV again.


	6. The Eagles

It was five in the morning, and Dean was huddled up in a ball under his covers. He was pretty sure that he just saw his breath. He was resigned to grabbing another blanket from the bedroom closet when he heard it. A rattle. A dusty groan. 

Then he smelled it. The smell of burning hair and death. Dean let out a sigh of pleased recognition. It was December and the heater was finally being turned on for the winter.

Considering he could barely feel his feet even in two pairs of wooly socks, Dean and his toes felt this was a huge improvement. 

His mood greatly improved, he rolled over and crawled out of bed while humming a mindless Christmas tune. Time to get a nice warm shower and enjoy his day of relaxation after a shift at the firehouse. 

His nice, warm day of relaxation, he amended. 

As he undressed, he thought of his next door neighbor. Cas and he had gotten to know each other these past two weeks. Well, Dean thought, had gotten to know each other as much as anybody could get to know someone over fantasy and sci-fi television marathons.

That Cas liked to marathon movies and TV shows at all told Dean enough. Cas was a cool guy. He still listened to music, but most of the time it was when Dean was gone, so he figured they had come to a sort of truce on that point. 

He stepped into the steaming shower.

On cue, he hear a melody creep through the door and mix with the thundering of the shower. Speak of the devil, Dean thought. Cas must be feeling…something…this morning. Truth be told, Dean still wasn’t sure exactly why Cas needed to play his music.

He knew that Lord of the Rings held specific associations for him. It reminded him of his teammates from back when he was a soldier in the army. 

Why exactly it reminded him of them, Dean still wasn’t sure. Why he played the music when the memories they brought were painful, Dean also wasn’t sure. Cas had muttered one night about it being relaxing, but Dean didn’t see how he was getting much stress relief if all the music brought were bad memories. 

He shrugged and stepped over the rim of the tub to begin drying off.

He was curious, but he’d let Cas tell him on his own time. If there was one thing he had learned from his relationship with Sam, it was that forcing people to talk about their issues did not work out well in the end.

***

The butter bubbled as it began to splatter. Dean quickly cracked two eggs into the pan and turned down the flame. He tapped his fingers.

After half a minute had gone by Dean added some water to steam the eggs and put a lid on the pan. He turned the stove down even more. He tapped his fingers again, then stopped tapping them. The music next door had ceased.

Turning, he went to put the carton of eggs back in the fridge. He had to bend down to open the door. His back got way too much bending opening and closing the fridge, at least in Dean’s opinion. 

There was a knock at the door. Dean banged his head on the top of the fridge. Swearing, he backed out of the fridge and went to look through the peephole. He saw what looked like the top half of Cas’s face.

What did Cas want this early? 

Dean opened the door with a smile. “Now who’s knocking on doors at ass o’clock in the morning?” he asked teasingly. 

When Cas didn’t answer, Dean looked at him closer. He looked like shit, and that was putting it nicely. His perpetual stubble had grown into patchy scruff and the lines under his eyes were set deeper into his face and cast purple shadows in the dim hall. 

Dean’s smile fell away.

“Hey, Cas, come inside. Don’t stand in the cold hallway, there aren’t any heating vents out there.” 

Cas walked robotically forward and over to Dean’s couch before turning and heading for the kitchen. 

“Eggs,” he stated blankly.

“Eggs?” Dean asked.

“Eggs. Your eggs.” Cas said again with a huff. 

“Oh, my eggs!” Dean whirled from the door and went to turn off his eggs. Taking the lid off, he decided that they looked okay, if slightly brown. 

He slid them from the pan and onto a plate. He first bite was halfway to his mouth before he remembered – “Do you want any eggs, Cas?” he asked politely.

They were at that stage, he thought. Eggs between friends on a Monday morning. A very early Monday Morning, he thought as he suppressed a yawn. 

Cas’s brow furrowed as he appeared to give the matter much more thought than Dean figured it deserved. 

“Yes, please.”

Dean was about to find out how many he wanted when Cas continued without prompting, “Three.” 

Dean finished chewing his first bite of eggs before he put his plate down and went to get the eggs back out of the fridge. Cas looked too out of it to be let anywhere near a stove. 

Dean cracked three eggs into the already hot pan. An eggshell dropped into the white of the egg and he quickly worked to use the blunt ends of his fingernails to fish it out, with victory coming after a few seconds. Dean licked his singed fingertips. 

While he went through his usual egg cooking routine, Dean decided that now was as good a time as any to figure out why Cas had knocked on his door at six in the morning. 

Slowly does it, Dean thought. “So, Cas,” he started casually, “Anything on your mind?”

Cas stared at him and Dean decided to clarify.

“How come you came over this morning? Couldn’t you wait for my company until our ongoing _Game of Thrones_ marathon this afternoon?” he asked teasingly.

Cas sighed before bowing his head. “I decided to come over here rather than play the Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack loud enough that you would end up coming over to my place with your infernal knocking.”

“So…you decided to come over here with your own infernal knocking instead?” 

“Yes,” Cas answered matter of factly.

Dean turned off the burner and slid the three eggs onto another plate. He went to grab a fork from the drawer by the fridge. He turned and grabbed some cheese from the cheese drawer of the fridge as an afterthought. The fork was handed to Cas and the cheese was put on top of his eggs. Since they were already out, Dean added another slice to his own rapidly cooling eggs. 

“Let’s take our eggs and go veg out on the couch for a bit.” Cas looked like he wanted to stay in the kitchen, but Dean didn’t want him standing up. 

“Come on man, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Cas acquiesced and headed for the couch with his plate of eggs. Dean followed. 

They settled into the couch cushions. It was quiet. Dean worked at his eggs and was pleased to see Cas doing the same. 

Dean finished his eggs and decided to bite the bullet and tell Cas something that had been on his mind since his shower this morning. 

“You know you can listen to you music if you need to, right? I know I said something like this two weeks ago, but we were both tired. I wanted you to know I meant it.”

Cas swallowed his bite of egg.

Dean continued, “You’re my friend, and if you need to listen to music to feel better, then do it.” They were heading into emotional territory, but Dean wanted to make sure that Cas understood that Dean knew the soundtracks he listened to were like the eagles in the Lord of the Rings. They rescued him from dark places, even if they didn't help him forget. 

Still, there was nothing wrong with lightening the mood. “Besides, you’re getting really good with your vocalizing.”

Cas had been staring at Dean, but here he rolled his eyes. He set his plate on the coffee table with Dean’s, and simply said, “Thank you.”


	7. Castiel's Song

Dean squirted some soap into the sink. Bubbles started to obscure the water. Cas passed him the dishes and silverware and Dean put them in to soak. Their fingers brushed and soapy water sloshed onto the counter. He turned off the water and faced Cas.

“So, do you wanna get an early start on that marathon?” He was far from opposed to spending a lazy morning stretched out on the couch with Cas. 

With Cas. 

When had his definition of a nice morning started to include him? Now that he thought about it, everything good lately was ‘with Cas.’ Hell, he spent most of his time off work with him, watching movies and eating salty food. 

Dean was starting to realize that Cas was creeping more and more into the corners and folds of his life. 

It was…different. Dean wasn’t used to having friends outside of work. Sammy didn’t count—he was his brother. 

Truly, Dean hadn’t been seeing much of Sam lately. It seemed that once Sam had hit thirty, his career had really started to take off. He didn’t have the time to spend hours with Dean puttering around their Uncle Bobby’s garage. They hadn’t even driven together in the car lately. 

Dean was happy for Sam, he was, he told himself firmly, but that didn’t stop Dean from feeling lonely. More than a brother, Sam had been his best friend since he was practically a baby. He was still his best friend.

Dean’s relationship with Sam, though, it was different than the one he had with Cas. He had a different sort of connection with both of them. In fact, Dean was starting to get that his connection with Cas was different than his connection with anybody he knew, whether it was Sam, Jo, or his friend Benny. 

For some reason, the closest person Dean could equate Cas to was Lisa, which didn’t make any sense, considering Cas and he weren’t dating. Not, he thought slowly, that he would necessarily be—

Dean was pulled from his thoughts when he realized Cas had started to answer his earlier question about their upcoming marathon. “—tually I had been planning on making a trip to the market this morning.” He looked at Dean. “Judging from what I just saw of your fridge, it might not be a bad idea for you to come along.”

Cas wanted to go the market with him. Okay. Friends did that. So did more-than-friends, but that was besides the point. Before he agreed, though, Dean needed to clarify one thing. “And then watch TV when we get back?” 

“Yes, Dean. We can pick up some food for our marathon too. If you get the chips, I could make guacamole and salsa.”

Dean’s stomach gave an interested growl at the thought of chips and salsa. But he wasn’t going to let Cas do all the work. “How about I make the guac and you make the salsa?”

Cas gave the matter a moment of thought before suggesting that they work together. Dean was cool with that. 

Cas let out a yawn and stretched his arms over his head. Dean’s eyes swept from Cas’s face down to his chest, where the layers of his shirts had bunched up. Cas was still dressed in his pajamas. A green long sleeved shirt with a sweater thrown over it, and, if Dean wasn’t mistaken, a flannel in between.

Dean’s eyes went lower. Flannel bottoms with thick Christmas socks. There was a hole in the toe of one of them. Dean watched the toe curl as Cas stretched. A few moments passed and the toe uncurled. 

Dean realized he had been staring at the dude’s toe. He let out a huff and shook his head roughly. He looked back at Cas’s face. Why had he been looking at Cas again?

He thought for a second before remembering that they were going to get food. Shopping. People. Right. Dean had been … making sure Cas’s outfit was appropriate for being seen in public. 

Because Dean gave all of his friends a once over before they went out together.

Because he was such a fashionista.

Dean was grateful that Sam wasn’t privy to his thoughts at the moment, which, if he had been there, he probably would have been. The guy was psychic when it came to Dean. 

Cas had finished stretching and was walking out of the kitchen. “I’ll just go put some clothes on and meet you back here in five minutes,” he tossed over his shoulder. 

“Okay,” Dean called after him as the door latched shut with a click.

***

Jesus Christ Cas was picky. That was the ninth avocado he’d rejected. At this rate, they’d be better off buying the guacamole.

“Cas, why don’t you let me pick,” he suggested, after Cas had picked up another avocado and started turning it over and frowning at it. 

Cas glared at him before announcing that this avocado was fine and that he’d “Just needed to pick from the back of the display.” 

A little old lady picking out apples across from them gave them both an amused smile. Dean smiled back tightly, but relaxed after a moment and gave her a genuine smile. He bet they did sound kinda funny. 

He watched Cas put six avocados in a plastic bag, one after the other. Once he was finished Dean grabbed the bag and put it in the cart. He pushed his way over to the tomatoes, which were conveniently situated by the avocados. He yanked another bag from the dispenser and picked out two vines of Roma tomatoes to put in it. 

What else? “We need onions,” Cas answered before he could voice his question, adding “and we also need garlic, cilantro, and jalapeños. Unless you have any, Dean.”

No. “Nope, I’m all out.”

He pushed the cart over to the onions and garlic and quickly started picking out onions before Cas could go through the same routine as he had with the avocados.

Behind him, he heard Cas start to debate whether they should buy two jalapeños to get one free. No question there. “Get three, Cas,” Dean called over his shoulder. There was nothing wrong with a little spice.

***

“Motherfucking Christ!” Dean wheezed out. He coughed. Leaning against the counter beside him, Cas looked calm and cool.

“Too many jalapeños?” He asked with a knowing grin. Dean got a hold of himself. 

“No. Maybe.” He coughed again before swallowing convulsively. “I need some milk.” 

Maybe three had been a bit too much, considering they had only made around two quarts of salsa in all. He yanked the fridge door open and grabbed at the milk, starting to drink before he had even kicked the door shut. Dean’s throat started to cool and the burning faded into tingling. 

It was appropriate, Dean thought petulantly, that the battle music from Helm’s Deep was playing softly in the corner.

***

Light from the TV flickered across Dean’s face and the soundtrack to _The Two Towers_ started its third repeat of the night, but Dean didn’t notice. He was asleep. So was Cas.

Cas shifted in his sleep and slowly slid to his side, his head resting on Dean’s lap. They both slept on.

***

Dean woke up with a start. He looked around, disoriented to see that he was in his living room. Looking at the TV, he saw that the menu page from the DVD he and Cas had been watching was playing in a loop, as it had probably been all night.

Cas.

Dean rubbed his eyes and flopped his head back on the couch cushion. As he stared blankly at the ceiling he noticed a warm weight on his lap. He looked down and saw Cas drooling on his sweatpants. Ick, Dean thought. 

Never having had anyone but Sammy fall asleep on his lap like this before, for a moment he was tempted to stand up and start making his excuses. But then he remembered yesterday, and the shadows that had been under Cas’s eyes.

Cas looked peaceful. Peaceful enough to drool, anyways. Dean watched him through bleary eyes for a few minutes before he lifted his hand and hesitantly touched Cas’s hair. It was soft under his hand. Dean lightly ran his fingers through it and tried to calm his bedhead. Cas sighed and nuzzled into Dean’s lap. 

Dean shifted, growing uncomfortable. Okay then. Time to get up. 

He moved slightly, enough to slip out from under Cas. The couch creaked as he inched off it. Cas stirred and Dean saw him lazily open the eye that belonged to the side of his face that wasn’t burrowed into the couch. 

Well, since he was awake. Dean collapsed back against the back of the couch and groaned slightly. He could still feel the heavy fog of sleep, and his stomach still felt full from last night’s chips and salsa. 

He breathed in warm air. Dean yawned. “Mornin’ Cas,” he said lowly, his voice rough from sleep. 

At the sound of Dean’s voice, Cas dug deeper into the couch and groaned out, “What time is it?”

“Time to get up and start the day.”

Cas dug his hands into the ridged cloth of the couch and pushed upwards so that he was sitting up next to Dean. He slumped back and started to close his eyes again. In Dean’s opinion, it looked like the night of sleep had barely made a dent in the bags under his eyes and so he decided it wouldn’t hurt to let him there while he went to get a shower. 

“I’m gonna go hop in the shower, dude,” he told Cas, who upon hearing this statement flopped his hand in Dean’s general direction. Dean decided to take that as an acknowledgement. 

He flicked the CD player off as he walked to his room.

***

Cas was having a nightmare. Dean watched from the doorway as he jerked and moaned on the couch. What had happened? He had only been gone ten minutes, and in that time Cas had gone from relaxed like goo to a taught and shaking mess.

Dean looked around, trying to see if anything had changed while he’d been gone. His eyes swept the living room and the kitchen before falling to the counter to his left. The music. He’d turned it off when he went to get a shower. 

He turned and fumbled with the buttons on the CD player before a soothing melody finally started to flow from the speakers. Remembering how loud Cas normally liked his music, Dean gripped the dial and turned up the volume. 

From his place on the couch, Cas stopped moaning. But his face remained set with lines. He was still dreaming. 

Dean thought of one other thing that was different about the room. After a moment’s hesitation, Dean walked over to the couch, his steps muffled by his thick socks. He sat down, careful not to bump into Cas. The couch springs groaned. 

Slowly, Dean inched his hand forward. He clasped Cas’s hand and brought it over into his own lap. Dean started stroking the back of Cas’s hand with his thumb. Back and forth. 

Cas jerked awake. His eyes were wild as he took in his surroundings. Dean jumped in his seat, startled. But after a moment, Cas’s eyes returned to normal and the tightness began to ease from his expression. The lines on his forehead smoothed, and he fell back against the couch with a moan. He covered his face with the hand that Dean wasn’t holding. 

He remained like that for a bit before speaking from behind his hand. “Did I alarm you?”

Dean let go of his hand. “No. Well, a little, but it wasn’t your fault.” Cas lifted his eyebrows, the only part of his face that was visible at the moment. Dean forged on with his explanation. “I turned off the music when I left.

“It is my fault, Dean. They’re gone because of me, and I have to live with the nightmares.” Cas sounded resigned. 

Dean didn’t know what to say, so he scooted over and gruffly lifted his arm. Cas looked at him hesitantly before scooting a bit towards him. At Dean’s impatient expression he kept on scooting until he was resting under the warm weight of Dean’s arm. 

Dean turned inward so that he could see Cas’s face. Cas rested his cheek lightly, hesitantly, on Dean’s chest. His hair brushed Dean’s chin. 

“You’ve gotta live with me now too, Cas,” Dean finally whispered. Cas gripped Dean’s hand tighter.

Dean lifted their intertwined hands between their chests and started stroking Cas’s hand again. Cas looked up, his expression unfathomable. Dean’s chest tightened. But then, Cas rested his cheek back on the soft flannel of Dean’s chest and twisted his hand to intertwine their fingers. Dean’s chest loosened.

They would be okay. More than okay. Cas had gone from the dude who played crazy loud music through the wall to the dude who played loud music in Dean’s apartment because he was Dean’s friend-who-was-apparently-more-than-a-friend. And, Dean thought as he drifted off to sleep, he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
